Act 1. The Night Market Waits for No King

Trade Ward, Waterdeep - Dusk
The last slivers of sunlight melted behind the rooftops of the Trade Ward, turning the city’s stone and slate into long black teeth against a blood-orange sky. The streets, once bustling, had begun to simmer down into a quieter rhythm — shops shuttered, lanterns lit, and voices lowered to murmurs. But down the crooked alley beside the Tiny Tavern, the world felt different.

Shmautz walked with the easy grace of a creature born into silence. The muffled hush of his padded feet against the cobbles barely stirred the rats. He passed a broken barrel and half-burnt wanted poster fluttering on the wall behind it, with the drawing of a man.

At the far end of the alley, a shadow moved and paused. A figure stood waiting, half-swallowed by the gloom between two buildings, the hood of a grey cloak pulled low over the face. The shape was average, nondescript.

Shmautz stopped, stepped back behind the broken barrel and remained silent. He peeked down the ally, trying to figure out, if there were other people around the figure. On the roofs? Behind corners? Was this all safe?

His whiskers trembled nervously.

"An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.", he thought.

Shmautz narrowed his eyes, pupils thinning to careful slits as he scanned the alley with the precision of a born predator. His ears flicked, tuning out the hum of distant tavern music and latching onto the rhythm of breathing, the shift of leather, the creak of boots. Nothing. No shadows moved above, no glint of steel in corners, no telltale weight of a second breath where there should be none. The rooftops held only pigeons and dusk, and the corners were empty of watchers. Just the lone figure in grey, waiting — too still to be nervous, too patient to be lying. For now, at least, it seemed... safe enough.

As Shmautz didn't notice any menace, he continues walking down the alley. He tries not to be too fast, nor too slow. As he is just about a few feet away from the grey-hooded figure, he stops. His hands are in the pockets of his robe.

With a bored gesture, he looks around. Then, after a few moments, he says:

"The night market waits for no king."

The figure gave the slightest nod. No words. Just turned, and began walking through the maze of narrow lanes and arched stone paths.

Shmautz was surprised. Instead of responding, the figure just went away.

"What the whisker!? Maybe this is the way those secret spy-things work here?"

Shmautz follows the figure, but doesn't say a word. He's too nervous and doesn't want to show his uncertainty.

So they didn’t speak as they moved through the maze of narrow lanes and arched stone paths of Waterdeep.

The stranger led Shmautz past shops long closed and homes pretending not to listen. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they turned a corner and ducked under a heavy iron arch marked only with faded sigils, too weathered to read. Beyond it: darkness deeper than dusk. A tunnel, half-forgotten by the city, led into the sewers and the underbelly of Waterdeep.

The cloaked figure turned, checking if Shmautz was still following, and slipped into the tunnel. Into the darkness.

For a moment, Shmautz paused.

"Of course, it's the sewers! What the whiskers? My feet will smell like an Ogre's behind. I'll have Branric nose them, once I'm back in the Tavern.

I wonder, how that grey guy can see?"

"You have night-vision, or what?", Shmautz speaks for the first time. He squints his eyes again and looks into the dark. Then he slips in as well, following the figure.

The tunnel swallowed them whole. After a few turns, the figure slowed, pausing beside a worn alcove where a stone ledge jutted from the wall — a meeting place, by the look of it, used more than once.

The hood lowered slightly, revealing a sharp-featured woman with dark auburn hair bound tightly at the nape, faint scars along one cheek, and steady eyes the color of weathered silver. She had a strange blue glow in her eyes, probably caused by some kind of spell.

A simple pin glinted on her cloak near the collar: a silver harp wrapped in a crescent moon — the unmistakable symbol of the Harpers. Subtle, but there for those who knew how to look.

Her voice, when it came, was calm, measured, polite.

"You’re Shmautz," she said, not asking, but confirming. "I’m Neria. Watch investigator, and Harper… unofficially," she offered, voice low but not unfriendly. "We can’t always trust the Watch’s higher ranks — too many pockets lined by the wrong gold. That’s why I asked Branric for someone with instincts, someone outside the usual… circles."

Her eyes flicked to Shmautz'.

"There’s a clandestine auction tonight. Magic items, artifacts, things that shouldn’t be changing hands — certainly not in secret. The Watch can’t intervene directly — not without… political consequences and at least one Lord making it all for nothing." Her mouth curved faintly, dry humor beneath the words. "But the Harpers? We have more flexibility. Your task is simple. Blend in, observe. There’s a noble's son — Darnald Vexley. Soft, foolish, but ambitious. He’s after something powerful, and dangerous if wielded by the wrong hands. Find him. Find out what he’s buying. Track the exchange. Intervene only if you have to."

A pause.

"My pleasure.", he says, and slightly bows.

Then Shmautz looks over Neria and takes his time to answer.
"I understand.", Shmautz says, and his whiskers move as he smiles. Then he takes another moment, gathering all the thoughts in his head. Finally, he says:

"A lot of people are ambitious and foolish, especially when nobles meet. Is there more about that one Darnald Vexley? What I'm supposed to do, if I have found out, what he's looking for before he has it? Take the item or is there anyone I shall contact? Someone, who's able to overbid him? I'd rather stay safe than openly messing with a noble - he might have ... escort that takes care of his well-being, making a confrontation a bad idea."

"Good questions." she replied softly. "Darnald Vexley… His father’s coin keeps him from consequences, but not from foolishness. He fancies himself a player in deeper games — the kind of noble who mistakes wealth for wisdom." Her voice carried faint disdain, but with practiced neutrality beneath it. "Ambitious, arrogant, and… careless. But even fools sometimes have friends."

She retrieved a smaller slip of parchment from inside her cloak and offered it to Shmautz. On it was a rough but competent sketch of Vexley: early twenties, sharp chin, expensive cloak, and an expression that practically oozed entitlement.



"You’re right to be cautious," she continued. "If you spot him and learn what he’s after before it changes hands, do not confront him directly unless there’s no other choice. We’re not here to start a scene. You’ve got two options if the deal’s still in play."

Her silver eyes sharpened slightly.

"First, observe. Watch for other allied buyers. You may recognize Harper or allied signs in the crowd — subtle gestures, marked coins, left-hand rings. If you spot one, pass the information quietly. I can try to arrange for someone to… outbid the boy, or otherwise delay the trade."

She paused, the faint glint of calculation behind her calm expression.

"Second option, if no Harper’s near and it’s turning dangerous — you intervene. But you do it quiet. Shadow work. Lift the item, if possible, or disrupt the trade without tying your face to it, if not. No blood unless unavoidable, no names unless necessary."

Shmautz takes the parchment and examines the picture carefully to memorize the details.

"Good, I understand. I hope some of your harpers will be there. On the other hand, the less I know, the better for everyone involved. Where do I need to go?"

Shmautz hands the parchment back to Neria, then says:

"And there's one more thing we need to sort out before I set off - what about payment?"

A quiet, genuine smile ghosted across Neria's face as Shmautz handed the parchment back. She slipped it into her cloak with practiced ease.

"The auction’s straight ahead, Follow this tunnel and you’ll come up beneath a warehouse called The Gilded Net. If anyone questions you, tell them you’re there for ‘evening trade.’ That should be enough to keep doors open and eyes elsewhere."

She reached into her cloak and produced a coin — small, silver, and unmistakably foreign. its edges worn but the details still sharp: the elegant silver piece from Zakhara. A dirham — rare in Waterdeep, but common enough elsewhere to make it nearly untraceable.

"This," she explained, "marks you for entry. Show it discreetly at the auction’s threshold — no words, no questions. Only those in the know recognize it."
"Of course," she replied, no hesitation in her voice. "No one walks into shadows for free."

Her hand slipped to a small leather pouch at her belt. She tossed it toward him — the dull clink of coin within unmistakable.

"Ten gold now," she explained, her voice smooth but firm. "For your discretion, your time… and your silence if you walk away."

Her expression sharpened, tone turning measured, like weighing scales in a merchant’s hand.

"The rest depends on what you find. If you secure a magic item — quietly — before some fool buys or lifts it, bring it to me. The Harpers will see it ends up where it belongs… and I’ll see you rewarded properly. More than coin, if it’s rare enough."

She let that linger a moment, then added:

"If there’s no item to retrieve — if it’s all talk, or you settle things with words — I’ll give you forty gold for a clean resolution. Extra information also has its own price."

Her eyes fixed on his, steady, clear.

"But make no mistake — walk into that market, and you’re representing more than yourself. Play it smart, play it quiet, and the Harpers remember their friends."

"Gilded Net. Evening trade. Coin for the entry. Affirmative.", Shmautz repeats the facts as he was taught in the valet-apprenticeship.

He takes the coin, weights it in his palm, then letting it vanish in his robe. With the other hand he aptly catches the pouch.

He carefully listens to Nerias sentences and the promise they contain. The promise for coin, for fame or... he had no idea what would happen if he messed this up.

But isn't this, what I wanted? Isn't this what I agreed upon, when I took it over from Branric?

All of a sudden, he felt a strange confidence.

Wasn't this after all a job he was exactly trained for? Blending in? Seeing, hearing, but without being noticed?

"I won't disappoint you.", he says. This time the slow nod with his head is more than just an agreement — it's a commitment.

Neria gave one final nod. A few quiet steps, and then she was gone — folded into the dark as if the shadows themselves had swallowed her.

Shmautz was alone.

The tunnel ahead stretched forward like the throat of some ancient beast — damp stone walls narrowing slightly, the air thick with the scent of mold, rusted metal, and the faint tang of seawater. The last scraps of light clung to the curve behind him, the way back to the surface. Ahead: a black void. Total darkness.

He blinked, letting his feline eyes adjust. Even his keen Tabaxi sight could barely make out the edges of the corridor after just a few paces.

The darkness stretched out before him like a riddle.

At first, Shmautz was a little surprised. Neria disappeared so quickly, so elegantly.

Seems like she really knows her trade. Let's not mess this up.

Shmautz decided to make as little noise as possible, but also appear indifferent. His eyes slightly twitched, he concentrated on his surroundings.
He took a deep breath and then started his way into the depth of the tunnel ahead. Whilst moving forward carefully, he recalls the facts he was told about the auction.

Shmautz pressed forward, melting into the darkness. The tunnel sloped downward, the air growing colder, the scent of damp stone giving way to something metallic — and faintly perfumed, like incense long since extinguished.

Then, a sudden dip in the uneven floor caught the edge of his foot — a raised stone or buried root, impossible to see. Shmautz stumbled, his balance thrown — but his body responded before thought could catch up. With a twisting shift of weight and a quick flick of his tail for balance, he righted himself in a silent spiral of movement, one paw skimming the tunnel wall for support. Then rose fluidly, ears flicking.

After that, ahead, the passage widened.

Flickering light shimmered faintly across damp walls as the tunnel spilled out into a broader stone chamber. Two iron-banded doors stood slightly ajar, flanked by wall sconces bearing low-burning torches. Beyond the doors came the hum of conversation — hushed voices, layered and sharp-edged. Words too low to discern.

Standing guard on either side were two human figures. Each wore an ash-grey cloak pulled tight across the chest, their faces obscured by black masks, smooth and featureless. They said nothing, did nothing.

Shmautz looks briefly at each of the guards while getting closer, then looking at the door, having a blank expression. His movement is just about right. Not too slow, like examining. But also not too fast, like being hasty.
After all, he was a business-cat at the moment. There was no need for looking like trouble, but also no reason for showing any doubts.

As he's about 4-3 feet away from the guards and door, he says:

"I'm here for the evening trade."

, while knuckle-rolling the coin that Neria gave him.

The closest guard tilted his head slightly, glancing down at the coin. A flicker of recognition passed between the two masked figures.

"You have the token," said the first, voice muffled and genderless through the mask, "but not the face."

The second turned slightly to Shmautz, his head tilted. "We were told to expect certain families. Well-known groups. You're not behaving like one of them. If you have no title, then you must certainly carry wealth or power. Do you have any collateral to prove your eligibility—coin or magic of adequate value?"

A faint emphasis on the last word.

"Have my skills gone rusty? Seems like, I was not quite able to deliver the impression intended.", Shmautz thinks. I must not mess this up.

"How can someone who hides their own face behind a mask make a statement about whether a guest's face fits the event?", he asks the first guard.

Then, displaying indignation on his face, he turns to the second one:
"And you? What kind of hospitality is this if I receive a ticket as an invitation and a gift and am now harassed by ordinary ... guards? Does your boss not pay you well enough that you have to hassle his invitees? I wonder what the organisers will say when I have to tell them that I was regrettably unable to contribute to the success of their event because the two bouncers at the end of the hole in the ground blackmailed me. Insults like that quickly incur the attention of Xanathar's guild-men."

Shmautz picks one coin of his salary and uses the pause to think.
Then he flips the gold-coin over to the guard and it flies in high-arc ...

"But here you go. Let noone say that 'Rearbro Mysticlaw' isn't nice and generous. I hope you can enjoy your last meal." he says in a compassionate tone. Hoping to catch them by surprise and have them stunned, he walks towards the door in self-evidence.